


The Nixtamalization of My Hands (It Made Them Soft)

by la_dissonance



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF
Genre: Brad is a little bit in love with everyone, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Workplace Sex, slight dom/sub undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_dissonance/pseuds/la_dissonance
Summary: Fuck it. He's fully in the jaws of this crush now, couldn't stop it if he tried.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Fermín Nuñez
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	The Nixtamalization of My Hands (It Made Them Soft)

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a quick warm-up to get back into the writing groove, but it still took several days to write because this is the absolute worst hobby. This is not polished in any way. If you or someone you know is tagged above, please backbutton on out of here and we shall never speak of this again.
> 
> The working title of this is the actual title you see on the work, because: fuck it.

The owner of the tortilla restaurant is hot. He notices while they're doing introductions, moving around the quiet back room and Vinny's talking with the other chef about where they can put lights up and not be in the way. He's thick, someone Brad could really wrap his arms around, and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, Brad wants that smile on him all the time.

When he's formally introduced to Fermín he grips his hand a little too long and, "Oh wow, it's an honor to work with you," in a way that is pretty – ok – very obvious. Fuck it. He's fully in the jaws of this crush now, couldn't stop it if he tried.

He lets the feeling roll over him, savoring every time Fermín looks over at him or says his name. 

The back room is small already, even smaller with the film crew and all their equipment in it. Brad tries to get used to Fermín's hands on his lower back, his waist, guiding him through the space, prodding him to stay put or step forward, but every time it sends a shock of warmth through him. 

Where it all starts to fall apart, maybe, is when Brad finds out that the process of making tortillas is such a sensual one. He's wrist deep in a bag of dry corn, he can't not comment on how it feels. And then when they switch to the vat of nixtamalized corn, Fermín fishing pieces out and telling him to bite down to see if it feels done, fingers all sticky-slippery from the gelatin, anyone's mind would go to a dirty place.

"You got it," Fermín says when Brad stops joking around and mixes the corn kernels like Fermín showed him, and Brad preens. If he could do it better than perfect, make Fermín's eyes light up even more, he would. 

The thing is that Fermín is magnetic; Brad feels drawn to him and can't quite calibrate what normal would be. And Fermín's egging him on, he wouldn't have fed Brad those last two pieces of corn by hand if he wasn't feeling the same vibe. Brad licks his fingertips just to see what he would do. Fermín groans loudly and makes a big show of wiping his hand off on his apron, but his eyes are sparking.

There's a break after they film the hot corn. The camera crew is resetting the lights, the kitchen crew are bustling around trying to close up for the night. Fermín nudges him out of the way, and then they're squeezed into the one unoccupied corner, hip to hip in the tight space. Brad makes a joke about sardines and Fermín rolls his eyes, but in a way that makes Brad think that if he made a better joke, Fermín would laugh.

"Come on," he says, and expertly weaves through the room, tugging Brad by the wrist. The hallway between the back and the dining room is narrow and dark; someone already turned the lights off. Fermín's hand feels like it's burning through the layers of shirts over his back.

"Spooky," Brad says, affecting a shiver. He uses it as an excuse to push back a little closer into Fermín's space.

Fermín guides him sideways, through some swinging doors into a side area that feels small in the dark – Brad wasn't paying attention when they came in, he has no idea where they are – and then he's crowding Brad against a wall, leaning into him.

"Fuck, you're so big." He gets his mouth on Brad's collarbone, nuzzling into his shirt all beardy and rough. Brad bends down and kisses him, eager. Fermín gets a thigh between Brad's legs and swears again. 

"Aw fuck, I didn't know if you'd be into -" Brad gasps as Fermín grinds against him.

"You? This? I thought I had lit a neon sign."

Brad's a little dizzy from the kissing, from Fermín's hands up the back of his shirt. Words are farther beyond his grasp than they usually are. "Do you want...?" he rolls his hips in demonstration. 

Fermín's teeth scrape against Brad's neck. "Yeah," he says. He kisses the spot he had scraped. Brad lets his knees go loose, sinking down to give him better access. That, and they had already been getting a bit wobbly.

Suddenly, a light clicks on in the hallway outside their little alcove and voices bubble out from the other end of the hall. Fermín lets his head thunk against Brad's chest. 

"Fuck. We still have to film."

Brad's stomach sinks. He had completely forgotten.

"Raincheck, ok?" Fermín asks. He steps away and combs his hair back from his face. 

Brad adjusts himself in his pants. "Think they'll be able to tell?"

Fermín gives him an appraising eye. "Nah, man. Aprons."

Brad collapses against the wall, laughing. He cannot wait to redeem his raincheck.

No one comments when they make it out to the dining room a few moments after everyone else. The kitchen is right off the dining room, separated by a low wall. Filming should be a lot easier out here. Brad will miss the close quarters though. He's all keyed up, he doesn't want to stop touching Fermín. Even if it's just making up excuses to bump into him.

They watch the restaurant's best employee make tortillas for a few minutes, easy as breathing, and then Fermín makes one, slow.

"Your turn," he says with a grin, guiding Brad over to the tortilla press with a hand that's just barely on the decent side of ass versus back. A little thrill goes up Brad's spine – involuntary, he's on camera, and he goes where Fermín puts him.

Making tortillas is very hard, it turns out. Doubly hard when you're punch-drunk from closet makeouts, and the dude who was making out with you won't stop winding you up, and your best coworker/friend is laughing too hard to hold the camera steady. 

Brad suffers through several patchy, uneven attempts that he knows aren't up to par before Fermín's hands close over his on the handle of the press. 

"Not too hard," he says. "You want to be gentle with the tortilla. Just kiss it." Brad must make a noise, because he laughs as he shows Brad the exact pressure to use. 

There's a motion on the edge of Brad's field of vision. He looks up and sees that Vinny has thrown up his hands. "That's it, I'm turning the camera off. We're not going to be able to use any of this."

Brad's stomach sinks. If they're not filming, his excuse to make tortillas with Fermín evaporates. 

"We'll pick back up in the morning," Vinny's saying. The rest of the crew is packing up and filing out. The other restaurant workers must have already left. 

"Hey, you're not going anywhere." Fermín puts a hand on Brad's arm and gestures at the mostly-full bowl of masa. 

"We're picking this up tomorrow?" Brad repeats, confused.

Fermín shakes his head. "Practice round. You need it. We can close up here when we're done."

He instructs Brad on how to properly pick the tortilla up and lay it onto the cooktop next. Brad could watch this all day. Fermín's hands are so gentle all of a sudden, so careful. Brad wants even half of that care and attention on him, wants to be worthy of it. 

"I don't know if I can be that delicate," he says, when it's his turn.

"Just try," Fermín says. "Let me be the judge." 

Well, that is...a thrilling idea. Brad very much wants Fermín to decide he's doing it right. 

The first few attempts don't even hit the cooktop. Fermín scrapes them away and laughs. Brad feels a prickle of hot shame down his chest, and it's not. It's not bad. Even if he's doing it wrong, Fermín's full attention is still on him. He can keep trying until he gets it right. 

"Show me again?" he says, after his next failed attempt. There was a trick to it that he's not getting.

Fermín grins and shakes his head. "Nah, you'll get it."

Well, now Brad has to, just to prove the point. "If I do it right, what do I get? Is there a prize?"

"Hmm," Fermín says, appraising. His eyes run up and down Brad, so hot it makes him a little lightheaded. "If you do a perfect one, I'll suck you off." 

"Here?" Brad blurts. He's ready. He would let Fermín do him here, in the semi-enclosed space where anyone could theoretically walk in; he'd let Fermín do him in a car, or the alley out back of the restaurant, or the cramped closet again – anywhere, as long as it's soon.

Fermín's eyes crinkle as if he read Brad's mind. "Wherever you want, man. You so sure you can earn this?"

Oh, it's on. Brad tries hard. He tries...maybe too hard. If he could go easy, get into the groove, let his hands be gentle like Fermín keeps telling him, maybe he could get just one good one. But he's too keyed up, thinking about what's on the line, and his hands won't do what he tells them.

Too soon, Brad scrapes the last bit of masa out of the bowl. It's too small for a full tortilla; he knows before he even slides it onto the grill that it's no good. He's lost.

"I think this means I have to suck your dick," Brad declares, when he flips over the last tortilla and it is, predictably, a mess. Fair's fair.

He glances over at Fermín, ready to play it off for a laugh if Fermín's not into that – he's not going to assume – but Fermín's looking at him with that hot gaze again, and he drags him down into a messy kiss. 

"I love the way you think," he says into Brad's mouth, which makes Brad's stomach flip incongruously, and then he's pulling on Brad's shoulders, pushing him down, letting out a soft affirmative moan when Brad pops his button and gets his hand in his pants. 

Brad must spend too long feeling Fermín up and nuzzling him through his stretchy boxer-briefs, because Fermín curses and takes out his own dick. He feeds it into Brad's mouth, hot and salty, and Brad feels his eyelashes flutter closed completely against his volition. 

It's just a lot to take in – the stretch of his lips, the velvet weight on his tongue. He loves giving head, and if he tends to get a little too enthusiastic and sloppy, he hasn't heard any complaints. 

Fermín seems to be into it, at least. He's got one hand propping himself on the counter for balance, his legs spread wide to make room for Brad between them. Sometimes he lets out half a curse, but mostly he's just breathing all ragged and uneven, like having his dick in Brad's mouth has robbed him of the ability to even make words. 

He pulls off for a minute to wrestle Fermín's pants and underwear down around his knees so he can grab onto Fermín's ass for leverage, digging his fingers in.

"Fuck, your hands are huge," Fermín says, before Brad sucks him down again and he loses coherence. Brad kneads his ass a bit and Fermín moans. 

He doesn't last long after that, coming in a hot rush down Brad's throat. Brad swallows what he can, but some dribbles out the side of his mouth. He wipes his face on Fermín's thigh, then the back of his hand. 

When he looks up, Fermín's staring down at him. "I'm taking you back to my place."

Brad blinks and licks his lips. It's kind of hot how he can still taste Fermín there. "Why?"

Fermín grabs his hand and hauls him up. "Because," he says, pulling his pants up, "I want to do terrible things to you with kitchen implements. And I won't feel bad about misusing the ones at home."

"What, like, spanking?" All this time Brad's been daydreaming about making out again, Fermín's been on some next level shit. Brad maybe loves him a little.

"Yeah. You into that?"

"So into spanking," Brad confirms. His head is spinning a little. "Tell me more – what kind of implements are we talking, here? What else you got cooking in there?"

Fermín grins as he herds him out the door. "Come home with me and I'll show you."

–

The next day, they have to re-shoot basically all of the restaurant footage. 

Brad can't stop saying "hooked up."

They leave that in.


End file.
